The hole wasn’t deep, the mud sticking to her hands as she fumbled in the soil. The damp smell of rotting leaves cloyed her nostrils. A fox shrieked and her chest leapt in response. It had started to rain, a light sheen on her skin as she worked, fine droplets mingling with the sweat beading at her hairline. She looked down at the hole, the outline barely visible in the dark.
She filled in the space, worked quickly, goosebumps breaking out on her skin as she knelt on the wet grass. Empty, square glass windows overlooked the spot and she couldn’t stop craning her neck up at them, frightened that someone might hear something, turn a light on, appear in one of them. What would they see as they looked down? She felt her heart race, her breath loud in her ears. Surely she would wake up the neighbourhood?
Work faster.
Her fingers brushed against it, and she snatched her hand back in response, gritted her teeth. Don’t think about it. Then she remembered: she had meant to keep one bit of it. Closing her eyes, she searched with her fingers, located it, drew it out slowly before secreting it in the waistband of her trousers. She felt it close to her flesh, lying on her skin, and her muscles recoiled in disgust.
She was soaked through now, rain dripping from the ends of her short brown hair onto her collar, trailing down her neck like a chilly fingertip. She shivered, teeth chattering. She hadn’t thought to bring a coat; she’d had only one thing on her mind. Now, she knew she had to do it in that moment, didn’t want to wait, to be discovered.
A rustle nearby; she looked over her shoulder. An animal? A person? Familiar shapes no more at night, now indistinct, threatening. She returned to the soil, faster and faster, filling in the gaps, finishing the job, patting down the soil, smoothing it over.
Mud on her palms, under her nails. She would scrub at them with a stiff nailbrush for days, long after it had gone.
Another noise: she must leave. She stood, backed away, eyes not leaving the spot. It was done.
It was buried.
It was over.
Today was one of the days that hurt most. Even though so many years had passed, it didn’t take much: a glance at a familiar object, a crossword clue she was stuck on, the shrill shriek of the kettle on the hob. Memories would flood back and she would be winded all over again. She had never got used to the silence. She missed her soft voice, the slight lisp that always made her shy in public. She missed her gentle laugh, a low chuckle when she read something that tickled her or in response to something Elsie had done. There were other feelings too that rose, unbidden, making her blink, but she swallowed them down.
On these days, she knew she wouldn’t be able to manage anything more than her minimal, set routine, the small rituals that linked to make up her day.
The day had begun, too early, a confusing clash of dreams, of people she’d once known and people she would never meet. The quilt had slipped, pooling on the floor, and Elsie had knocked her water glass over reaching for her spectacles. She had made her porridge in her nightdress and slippers, jumping at the clank of the recycling truck on the road outside her house. She had scooped the peppermint tea leaves into the cream polka-dot teapot, noticing with alarm the hairline crack in the ceramic lid. Perhaps that was the moment the day had taken this turn?
Barely noticing her breakfast, she forced herself to change into her clothes, a sort of uniform now: black three-quarter length linen trousers, a light blue shirt and navy cardigan, one of the buttons coming loose. It was time for her to leave the house and head to the local shop to pick up the newspaper and a cucumber for her lunchtime sandwich. She was a little early so she tidied the porch. No need for her thick woollen coat and fleece-lined wellington boots over the coming months, she thought, as she placed them in the old trunk. After checking her watch she lifted her basket onto her shoulder, knotted the pale blue silk scarf around her neck, stepped outside her door and turned the key in the lock.
Next door the curtains in the downstairs window were still closed. She was careful to shut her gate slowly, cringing at the squeak of the metal that needed oiling. Everything needed oiling, she thought, as she gingerly descended the one stone step onto the pavement.
Normally no one was around at this time. The traffic of commuters out of the village was reduced to a lone car passing in the direction of the high street. The school run had finished, weary women pushing prams and tugging on the hands of resisting toddlers back in their homes or at the park. Elsie could walk along the road, past the now-redundant police station, the bus stop, the pub that seemed to permanently have scaffolding up, the library and head straight to the shop.
The door was in sight, but, too late, Elsie had been spotted. A woman hurrying across the road, barely pausing on the small concrete island – did she want to end up in traffic? – was waving at her. Scarlet, the librarian, seemed to bounce across the rest of the road, not letting Elsie sidle past. What did a woman have to do for some peace?
‘Are you coming in or is it not your day?’ she asked Elsie, rattling a bunch of keys in her hand. Her hair was twisted into a strange bun right on the top of her head. Elsie thought she looked like an exclamation mark.
‘Not today,’ Elsie said, almost adding that it was none of Scarlet’s business when she visited or not. What was she, the Book Police? Elsie had barely started the last novel she had rented out. Two chapters in and she could not understand any of the rave reviews splattered across the cover. The author must have a lot of nice author friends because Elsie certainly wasn’t gripped.
‘Well, I’ll see you soon then,’ Scarlet replied, her wide smile not faltering despite Elsie’s blank gaze.
She coughed and opened the library door, a quick wave back at Elsie. Elsie ignored it and headed straight for the door of the shop next door.
When she was safely inside she moved quickly across to the magazines and reached down for her newspaper. The stack was running low already, another drama on the front cover, but then there always seemed to be one and she only ever bought it for the cryptic crossword. Heading to the narrow range of fruit and vegetables, she selected one cucumber and retraced her steps before moving to the counter.
The young female sitting on the stool behind the till looked desperately bored, a mobile propped in front of her against a pot of bright red lollipops. She barely looked up as Elsie placed her basket on the counter.
Handing her a two-pound coin, Elsie waited for the change, muttering a thank you, momentarily tempted to say something about the girl’s mobile phone. When had customer service become such an out-of-date concept? She didn’t like the musty corner shop with its narrow aisles, items still in cellophane stacked on the floor, lights missing bulbs and a broken coffee machine near the entrance, but there wasn’t much choice unless she wanted to get the bus into town and she didn’t have the time for all of that.
She left, pausing for a moment on the pavement outside. It wasn’t Friday but she had an overwhelming urge to walk in the opposite direction to home: to go to the graveyard. Then she scolded herself for lingering as a man skirted her, throwing her a brief ‘good morning’ that she didn’t return. She set off for home.
When she returned, the curtains of the house next door were finally open and she averted her gaze, not wanting to be seen to pry, or invite more conversation.
She fumbled for her key, noting that she needed to replace the small sign next to the doorbell, disconnected years ago, that read ‘No Junk Mail’. As she pushed inside she noticed the postman had been, circular junk mail lying on the mat. Always junk mail and nothing else. Could he not read? She placed the two leaflets next to the door without studying them.
It was almost time for her to watch some television and in the spare five minutes she decided to play an LP.
‘This wasn’t a favourite, was it?’ she commented as the black disc started to whir, the dusty crackle before the opening bars of Ella Fitzgerald’s ‘Smooth Sailing’ began.
The listings told her that a movie she had watched years ago with her mother was partway through. She would watch that, unable to shake the familiar ripples of grief that seemed to be chasing her this morning.
Distracting herself, she headed to the kitchen, refilling the teapot, and placing two custard creams on the small white plate edged with roses.
‘There’s a movie we watched once, do you remember? With Shelley Winters in it. You said you liked her hairstyle.’
There was no answer of course, there never was, but that didn’t stop Elsie waiting a moment longer, as if her voice might come in reply. She sighed, loading up the pot, plate, cup and saucer on the small wooden tray and walking back through to the living room. Settling herself, she reached for the remote control and nibbled and sipped in front of the screen, the clock above reminding her when she needed to stop watching.
The movie helped to alleviate her dreary mood and she felt comforted that soon she would be moving to the next part of her day: the favourite part of her day.
She could hear something now through the shared wall of their houses, the boy Billy next door raising his voice. She tutted at the wall as if he could see her through it. He shouldn’t speak to his mother like that. Only ten years old and a temper on him. Elsie was sure he should be in school. Perhaps he was ill but she doubted it. He would be round here tomorrow while she babysat him, she thought, sulking and dragging his feet, his eyes hidden under a mop of dark brown hair that needed a cut, answering her in monosyllables.
Draining the last of the peppermint tea, she glanced at the clock, the hands almost meeting. Billy forgotten, she switched off the movie a few moments before it was about to end and went to fetch the things she needed. As she pulled them on, the comforting scent of the task ahead made her heart flutter, the joy in her day. It was time to while away some hours in her favourite place and then after that, she had an important job to do. It was Wednesday, after all.
I didn’t want to go. I hated it.
When Mum came in this morning, I whispered in a croaky voice how ill I felt and she reached a hand across and placed it on my forehead.
‘You do feel warm,’ she said, her voice filled with worry.
I’d got hot pulling the duvet right over me and breathing into the darkness. Luckily, it looked like that had worked and she left. I heard her take her shower and I lay there feeling well pleased with how it had gone. A whole day without having to face them, I thought, staring up at the peeling glow stars on the ceiling from the last boy who’d had this room.
When she came back in her dressing gown, her hair wet and tied back in a ponytail, I pretended to look as sick as I could. She gave me a little white pill, a glass of water and the plastic thermometer.
I tried to keep my face straight when I took the thermometer. ‘Thanks,’ I croaked, ‘Don’t catch a cold.’ But something about what I said was funny because she reached over and ruffled my hair.
‘Ten years old and already such a grown-up, I’ll be back in a minute.’
When I heard the hairdryer I relaxed and pushed the little white pill down the back of the mattress and sipped some of the water to pretend.
What would I do with the day? Lie on the sofa staring at the cobweb in the corner? Bounce that tennis ball against the skirting board in the kitchen? I didn’t exactly have loads of choices. Was I too ill to play football in the park later?
The hairdryer went quiet and I quickly reached across to my bedside lamp. I held the thermometer against the lightbulb and waited for the beep. That was where I messed up. When Mum came in, looking concerned, I held it out triumphantly. She took it, then her face changed and she went mental: I had a fever of 106.3.
‘You look remarkably bloody well for it,’ she roared, and she hardly ever swore so I knew this was bad.
I coughed, trying to look as sick as the thermometer said I was.
‘Stop that.’
I stopped.
‘Are you really ill, Billy?’
‘I am,’ I said, trying to croak again. ‘I really a—’
Then, I wasn’t sure how it happened, but I found that I was crying, big snotty drops down my face.
‘I don’t want to… please, Mum… I can’t…’
My whole chest was going up and down as I struggled to sit up in bed. The panic squeezed my heart.
‘You can’t just bunk off,’ Mum said, those two pink spots there on her cheek she always got when she was cross. ‘I can’t believe you lied to me.’
I felt sick now, knew this was her worst thing. She hated if I ever told lies, even tiny ones. I think maybe Dad had lied to her and that was why he didn’t live with us here.
I was still crying and the thought of Dad made it worse. He wasn’t perfect and sometimes I didn’t want to think about that side of him, but we had to live here now because we’d left him and that thought made the tears even bigger dripping off my chin onto my navy blue duvet. I’d chosen it for the new house a few weeks ago, but I missed my Lightning McQueen duvet cover from London even though I’d had it since I was about five. I wished I was back there. I just wanted to be on the estate, back with Dad, kicking used cans with Liam on our way to school. Does Dad wish we were back there too?
Now I was here in this house in the middle of the countryside not even close to the estate, not even near London. It had taken us an hour and a bit on that coach.
‘You need to get up, you’ll be late, but you won’t miss the whole of the first lesson,’ Mum said, pulling back the covers.
‘Please, Mum,’ I blubbered, ‘Don’t make me.’
My tummy felt tight when I thought of making the short walk down the road to the school, past the garage with the broken car wash, the bit of pavement with loads of bird poo underneath the big tree, the wooden shed where the little children went for playgroup.
‘You’re going, Billy.’
I knew she was serious: her fists were curled tight and her mouth was set in a thin line. The tears hadn’t changed anything.
I roared up out of bed. ‘I. Don’t. Want. To!’ I shouted.
Mum stepped back. I never really shouted at her, but recently I just couldn’t stop it. The words came out loud and fast and I felt this whooshing heat in my whole body. It was so unfair. Yesterday, I’d shouted because she’d given me a haircut with kitchen scissors and the fringe was too short.
‘I hate the stupid school and this place and this house and I hate… I hate you!’ I finished, panting now.
Mum’s face didn’t crumple like I thought it might and I waited, shoulders up round my ears. She lifted her chin, her eyes dark, and then spoke in her scary, quiet voice as she turned away, ‘Be ready in five minutes.’
She left the room and I picked up the water glass and almost threw it against the wall, gripped it tightly in my fist and then flung it on the duvet instead, where it bounced once and stopped still.
I did hate her. Why had she brought us here? We didn’t know anyone and the whole place smelt funny – apparently there were pigs in a field at the end of the village and sometimes farmers sprayed the fields. That’s what Mrs Maple said. Oh God, Mrs Maple! I had to go round to hers while Mum was at work and pretend to like custard creams and sit in her creepy house with all the old china things everywhere and the black-and-white photos like the olden days. I hated everything about this stupid place.
Why did I have to go to the stupid school in this stupid village? I wanted to go back to London and my friends and my school and my old house and my dad.
And I would find a way, I thought, as I picked up the school top I’d thrown on the floor the day before. I would.
She hadn’t been able to manage it today – was that part of her life over? The thought made a hand fly to her chest, a heavy weight in her heart. Would she have to give it up? The realisation forced her to finish earlier than she always did. She’d never stopped that early, never, but she’d needed to get away from there and the worries that crowded in on her. Was she too old now? Her hand shook as she placed the kettle on the hob, water sploshing out of the spout and making her curse into the small space.
‘I do mean it!’ she replied to the voice that wasn’t there. ‘I do bloody mean it!’
Tears pricked at her eyes as she rubbed at her hip. She wouldn’t return to the GP with her sympathetic tilt of the head and her irritating soft voice, her office plastered with photos of smiling grown-up children.
The shriek of the kettle reflected the noise she wanted to make sometimes: a loud, long, jarring wail.
She didn’t want to do anything else; everything was ruined. And yet the thought of abandoning her daily rituals overwhelmed her and she found herself swilling out the polka-dot teapot, nibbling half-heartedly at a cheese and cucumber sandwich and locating her purse for the second walk of the day into the village. The boy would need something for tea tomorrow – she had promised his mother. She felt a churning nervousness at the thought but a promise was a promise.
The high street was a little busier this time, a cornflower-blue sky dotted with wispy white clouds overhead, the wind still containing a surprising chill. She pulled her coat tighter and muttered as she passed a dog on a lead relieving himself against a lamppost, his bald owner chatting obliviously on a mobile phone. Everyone always yabbering on a phone.
The small café bustled with life, two women sat at one of the tables outside, one of them familiar but Elsie wasn’t sure how, nodded as she passed them. The bakery on the corner had a small queue to get inside, the chemist next door was practically empty. Elsie pushed open the door of the butchers and headed straight to the bell on the counter. A man in a three-quarter length white coat and a peaked white hat caught her eye just as she pressed down on the bell. He was young, a smooth chin and a glimpse of blond hair under his hat.
‘How can I help you today?’
‘Six sausages, please.’ She jabbed a finger at the pork and leek sausages piled up on a tray behind the glass and waited as he snipped the ends, weighed them and rolled them up into paper, sealing them with the price label.
She had her purse out by the time he asked, ‘Is that everything?’
Nodding briskly, she held out a hand for the sausages. ‘Everything.’
‘There you are.’ His smile wavered as she accepted them and held out the correct money. ‘Oh, let me get these gloves off.’ The young butcher fumbled as an older man peered round the doorway behind him.
‘Elsie!’ he said, moving inside to stand next to the younger man. ‘I thought I heard your voice. How can we help you today? Oh, I see Darren here has sorted you out,’ he added, his voice booming as ever as he looked at the sausages she had now placed in her basket.
‘Mr Porter,’ Elsie greeted him formally.
‘I’ve told you a hundred times: it’s Stanley. You must have bought three hundred Scotch eggs from me now and that certainly earns you the right. To your mother I was Stan, remember?’
Elsie pressed her lips together, the reply lost somewhere inside her.
Mr Porter didn’t appear to notice. ‘Excellent woman, Rosa. Excellent,’ he said, always a soft spot for her mother. He had told Elsie once before that every year her mother had made them jam for Christmas. ‘Everyone, Elsie, even the boys in the back, she’d think of everyone.’ Other times she would bring him cough medicine if he’d had a tickly throat the day before. ‘Always thinking of others in her gentle way.’
For a second Elsie wanted to halt everything and ask him to tell her another story, another longed-for memory of her mother. But grief made her slower in her response and the moment passed. ‘Well, lookie now, Elsie, Darren here just got engaged, did he tell you? Asked her to marry him on a hill in Wales!’ He laughed, Darren’s smooth skin turning pink as he slapped him on the back.
‘How nice,’ Elsie said, knowing engagements were a cause for celebration, knowing why she couldn’t feel the same joy. She glanced at her watch in an effort to show she needed to get on. She wouldn’t normally bother with that courtesy but Mr Porter was a little different.
‘The ring doesn’t fit though, Elsie. She’s had to wear it on the wrong finger, hasn’t she, Darren?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Oh, oh well,’ Elsie said, her hand squeezing the handle of her basket.
‘I told him, Elsie, I said, you should have checked her other rings, made sure. But did he listen? Did he, Elsie? No, of course he didn’t. The young never do – am I right? It’s up to us to see them right, isn’t it?’ He smiled, displaying the gap between his two front teeth as he waited for her to respond.
‘Well, I must get on.’
‘Always somewhere to be, haven’t you? Well, I like busy women, ask a busy person – am I right, Elsie?’
A busy person. Yes, yes, she was busy. She always had things to do.
She had moved across to the door by the time he had finished the sentence. ‘Well, goodbye then,’ she said over her shoulder.
‘You take care, Elsie, you come and see us again soon,’ Mr Porter called as she left, a new customer waiting outside the door to come in.
She could hear Mr Porter say something to Darren, his big laugh following her as she pushed back out onto the high street.
Walking home she was reminded to pop into the chemist and before she had checked through the glass, she had opened the door, a bell tinkling her arrival. Her shoulders drooped as she saw who was stood behind the counter, dressed in a plum tunic that clashed with the shade of her cropped hair, a name badge tilted above her left breast: ‘JUNE’.
It was too late for Elsie to back out now – she had seen her. Elsie felt her insides squeeze as she moved down the first aisle searching for what she needed, the empty shop smelling of antiseptic, her footsteps loud as she felt the other woman watching.
She approached the counter, the small pack clutched in one hand.
‘You haven’t been in in a while. Lozenges last time, wasn’t it?’ June said, leaning over the counter to glance directly into Elsie’s basket. ‘Been to the butcher,’ she carried on, seeing the sausages wrapped in paper. She lowered her voice, ‘How is Stan? Did he look well?’
‘Fine,’ Elsie replied.
June took a step back, mouth puckering, ‘No stomach problem?’ She gave a quick glance to the back, where her younger male colleague was scanning shelves of different coloured pills. ‘Obviously, we are always confidential about our customers, but I can’t help caring. It’s a real weakness, my friends say to me. ‘June, they say,’ she placed a hand on her chest, brushing the name badge, ‘You’re just all heart.’
Elsie gave her a thin smile and handed over the packet of plasters – her fingers often needed plasters, and the thought reminded her of earlier that day. She felt the gloom descend once more.
June took the rectangular packet, her mouth pressed together, eyes smaller as she swiped it through the till and handed them back. Plasters are not really juicy enough to gossip about perhaps, Elsie thought, or was it because she didn’t agree that June was all heart?. . .
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